


the broken, digital son

by carefulren



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Sickfic, Tumblr Prompt, Whump, Whumpfic, android flu, i'm always fucking you up somehow, sorry con con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:49:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22522027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carefulren/pseuds/carefulren
Summary: After Connor wakes up feeling absolutely miserable, he walks in on a conversation about a new android flu that's shutting down entire systems. Hank is the only one who can't catch it.
Relationships: n/a
Kudos: 128





	the broken, digital son

Connor’s still getting used to feelings, even two months after breaking down the systematic barrier that was keeping him locked in a room of rules and regulations. He’s still adapting to emotions, feeling happy, sad, sometimes scared, but he’s managing, no longer mentally scolding himself when the urge to laugh at something Josh says takes over, swelling in his chest, pushing against his programming. He doesn’t fight against the cool, blue tears that coat his ocular sensors when he watches something sad on the television. He’s adapting, yet when he wakes on January 7th, still adjusting to sleeping, to booting his systems into power save for seven hours at night, he feels wrong, unfamiliar, and incredibly uncomfortable.

He’s cold, freezing even, and it’s coming from inside, an icy block pushing and breaking against his biocomponents, spreading to his thirium, and the chill brings a dull ache across his systems, an ache that feels heavy, making it hard to even sit up in bed. He does, though, swapping his system from power save mode to full function, but even the small movement of rising from an incline jostles his gastrointestinal biocomponent in a way he’s only felt after consuming tainted thirium on a crime scene.

He feels sick, he decides, flicking through his programs for an appropriate adjective to tag to his current system’s operations. Sick and nauseous, and the two words paired together bring fear forward until he’s slowly twisting out of bed, involuntarily groaning once he’s on his feet.

Instinctively, he crosses his arms over his bare chest, synthetic limbs trembling harshly, and he raids Hank’s closet, thankful the older man left most of his clothes for him when he moved from the city, leaving Detroit for the androids. He slips into a pair of jeans, a thick, black pullover, and he finishes with one of Hank’s large coats. It’s navy blue, and it swallows his frame, but it’s warm, not doing much to chase the chill bleeding from his inner biocomponents, but it’s a start.

It’s snowing when he leaves the house, and he pulls the coat tighter around himself, shivering harshly, as he starts toward Simon’s residence.

The walk, normally a precise five minutes, takes him fifteen, his entire body protesting each step. He has to stop a few times to breathe through burning waves of nausea, to blink past the grayness creeping at the edges of his ocular sensors, but he finally makes it, offering two, shaking courtesy knocks before letting himself in, walking quietly into a conversation between Markus, Simon, Josh, and North.

“Androids can’t get sick,” Josh pushes, pacing the small length of the room.

“Josh,” Simon sighs, “can you please stop pacing and hear Markus out?” He rubs his hands over his eyes, a sign of fatigue, one he’s exhibits often, at least that Connor’s picked up on.

Connor keeps quiet, his presence still unnoticed, and he leans heavily against the closed door behind him, listening.

Josh stops, whipping around, anger evident across his face. “You mean listen to Markus tell me there’s some android flu that’s wiping out entire systems? It’s not possible!”

Fear. Again. Connor swallows against it.

“I spoke with the south side leader, Josh. Five of his men wound up sick. Two shut down completely, and the other three are fighting it.” Frowning, Markus crosses his arms. “He said he has hope that the other three will pull through– they’re newer models while the other two were old models that aren’t even made anymore.”

Connor can’t focus on anything other than “shut down completely,” the three words pushing against his programs, bleeding into each one no matter how hard he tries to wipe it, and he doesn’t hear the others suddenly call out to him, only coming back when North’s hand reaches out to him.

“Stop!” He holds one hand out, careful to not touch North, and he covers his mouth with his other. “Stay back…” he whispers, ocular sensors darting between the four approaching him.

“Connor,” North breathes out, worry evident in her soft tone. “You look terrible.”

Connor hasn’t looked in a mirror all day, too afraid of what the image will show, but he finally drags a shaking gaze to the mirror on the wall, a decorative piece North insisted Simon keep, and his eyes go wide at his poor pallor, at the blueish tinge coloring his cheeks, the flatness of his hair, still dripping icy drops of water down his temples.

“Connor, are you alright?”

Simon this time, gently pulling North back to approach Connor, and he keeps a careful distance, Connor makes sure of it when he rips his gaze from the mirror. “I don’t,” he tries, vocal systems shaking as hard as his limbs, “I’m not sure.”

Connor’s entire creation was centered around action and certainty, so admitting out loud, using the voice he’s been given, that he’s unsure of what’s happening somehow feels worse than any other feeling he’s still adapting to. “You were talking about an illness,” he presses against his fear, looking over Simon’s shoulder to Markus. “I think–”

“–Connor, this could be a number of things–”

“–no,” Connor starts, blindly reaching behind him for the doorknob. “It’s the same thing.” He has no evidence to back it up. He just knows it’s the same. “I need to leave–”

“–Connor, hold on–”

“–I’ll go to Hank’s,” he decides, the safest route for Hank can’t catch an android virus. “I’ll stay with him until I’m well.”

“Connor, Hank’s in Hamtramck.”

“It’s only twelve minutes from Detroit,” Connor’s sudden need for Hank, too, is an odd feeling. He’s suddenly craving a sense of fatherly comfort, briefly wandering if this is how human children feel when stricken down with illness.

“You won’t be welcome in Hamtramck.”

“I’ll be discrete.”

“It’s risky–”

“–I have to go!” Connor doesn’t mean to shout at the four, knowing they are only concerned for his well-being, but remaining among androids proves to be the greater risk, and he reminds them of this, the first sense of certainty he’s felt since he woke up from power save mode this morning.

“We don’t know how this can spread, and I don’t want to put any of you at risk. I’m a newer model,” he adds, referencing their previous conversation, “I’ll be fine with rest and recovery.” He opens the door behind him, stepping out into the snow, but before he turns away, Markus is pushing past the others, pressing car keys into his palm, risking a physical touch.

“Take my car. It’s far too cold out for you to do any more walking today.”

Connor wants to rip his hand away– Markus is the leader of the rebellion, a beacon to each deviant. He can’t afford to fall ill. He and Connor both know this, but Markus’ grip on Connor’s wrist is too strong, and Connor couldn’t pull away in his current condition even if he tried.

“And keep in contact with us. We want to make sure you come back to us.”

Connor can only jerk through a quick nod, fingers curling around the keys, then Markus pulls away, and Connor stumbles to the car, breathing harshly, his biocomponents that act as lungs struggling, burning slightly, until he’s coughing, a new development that has him pushing against his ache and nausea as he jabs the keys into the ignition, whipping out of the driveway.

By the time Connor makes it to Hank’s house, he’s truly feeling how he looks in the rear view mirror. His cheeks are now a dark blue, an alarming contrast against his otherwise pale complexion, and his eyes appear sunken, tired, unclear. He hasn’t stopped shaking since he woke up this morning, shivering so much that his body’s beginning to hurt more than the ache that’s clinging to each limb, and he’s exhausted, feeling as if he’s working fully on a low charge.

He drops his head against the steering wheel, hissing at the cold, coughing roughly, and he nods off without really meaning to, coming to hours later to Hank’s frantic voice at his side.

“Connor! What the fuck is going on? You’re burning up!”

Connor can’t answer verbally, only coughing weakly into Hank’s shoulder as Hank pulls him up and out of the car, and he’s stumbling beside Hank, leaning heavily against the older man as he’s pulled into Hank’s new house.

His ocular sensors aren’t operating properly. Everything’s spinning, and he can’t focus on anything. He can faintly feel Sumo nudge his hand, feel Hank’s arm tighten around his waist, and then he’s being eased onto a bed just as his systems give into whatever technical virus is plaguing him, and the last thing he remembers is Hank’s hand brushing his hair back.

It’s late when his systems reboot slowly, and an update pushes at his programming, one that’s tagged with a small “J.” Jericho, he thinks, frowning slightly, and he accepts the update, reading through the brief “Hope this helps, C,” message.

The update brings a hint of warmth to his biocomponents, warmth that mutes the dull ache clinging to him just a little, and he pries his eyes open to see Hank frowning deeply at him.

“Connor.”

Hank’s not one to emote much while sober, yet Connor easily picks up on the relief that carries the single word, and he smiles softly, still feeling far too drained but just a hint better.

“I never thought I’d be asking a fucking android this, but how are you feeling?”

Connor agrees, never thinking he’d have a question like that to consider, but with the rise and fall of CyberLife, he supposes anything’s possible. “I’m okay,” he mutters, vocal sensors emitting a deeper tone. “Not great, but I definitely don’t feel as bad as before.”

The situation feels oddly domestic, and Hank’s hand finds his forehead. “You feel a little cooler, and you don’t look as blue,” he mutters, poking at one of Connor’s cheeks. “Which is really fucking weird, by the way.”

Connor laughs, a few coughs slipping past, and Hank helps him up into a sitting position, carefully stacking pillows behind his back. Sumo’s on the bed at Connor’s feet, and Connor smiles once more, missing this, missing Hank and Sumo.

“Sorry you had to see me like that,” Connor starts, hoping to ease some of the tension Hank’s exhibiting, not needing a scan to see the tight shoulders and sharp gaze. “I couldn’t stay with other androids. It’s, whatever it is, contagious.”

“So you caught some android bug and came to me?” Hank’s voice is low, and Connor dissects the tone with a slight frown.

“As a precaution.” He lies, not verbally admitting to the need for human care. “But if I’m bothering you–” he makes to get out of bed, hand reaching to pull the blanket away from his waist, but Hank wraps a firm hand around his wrist, stopping him with a single touch.

“You aren’t,” Hank says, tone finally taking to a softer pitch. “You made the right choice.”

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason, I've never utilized the deviant friends in a fic, and I've been severely missing out, 
> 
> Come say hi or drop a prompt off on tumblr! (@toosicktoocare)


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